Chapter 18: He Never Knocks
I swung open my bedroom door in one quick pull and dropped my bag onto the small sofa by the window. My heels came off one by one, carelessly, as I began unbuttoning my blazer.
My head was still full of Ruan’s voice, ranting the entire drive home. About Reagan. About this house. About me being too damn forgiving.
I had just reached for a change of clothes when I heard footsteps. No knock. No warning.
“Reagan,” I sighed, sharp and annoyed. “Ever heard of boundaries?”
“In theory,” he said breezily, walking in like he owned the place. “But you know I’ve never respected boundaries when it comes to you.”
He stopped in the middle of the room, letting his gaze sweep over everything. I’d cleaned it all. The oversized bed with its gray linen cover. My work desk, buried in blueprints.
And then, the small shelf in the corner. The one with a few sentimental things I stupidly hadn’t hidden.
His eyes landed on one of them. “Oh,” he murmured, stepping closer. “This bag.”
I turned, following his gaze. The cream woven backpack. Bali pattern. Slightly frayed strap. The color had faded, but it was still intact. Still... very visible.
“It means nothing,” I said quickly, trying to sound indifferent.
Reagan picked it up between two fingers, holding it like a piece of evidence. “You said it was ugly when I gave it to you.”
“Because it was ugly,” I snapped, grabbing a T-shirt from the closet. “But it was useful. For carrying sunscreen and watermelon.”
He chuckled, still looking at the bag. “I bought it while you were napping at the villa. Should’ve known your taste would never align with ‘local artisan crafts.’”
“I said thank you,” I muttered.
“With the same tone you’d use if I handed you a live grenade,” he replied. Then he looked at me. “But you kept it.”
I said nothing. Just turned toward the bathroom, muttering, “I forgot.”
“You don’t forget.”
“I forgot to throw it out. Just like I forgot to get rid of your torn UCLA sweater,” I shot back.
His grin curled, and he stepped toward me. That usual confident walklike every room was automatically his the second he entered.
“I don’t mind you keeping the sweater,” he said low. “Better that than Caleb’s old basketball jersey.”
I spun around, fast. But he was already too close.
His eyes locked on mine, and I knew that look. That mix of arrogance and something darker… something heavier.
“You keep my things, Gee.”
“It’s a coincidence,” I whispered.
“There’s no coincidence with us.”
Before I could even breathe, his lips were on mine.
Not soft. Not rushed. Just deep. Familiar. Dangerous.
The kind of kiss that yanked me back to nights I never fully forgot. The way he touched me like he knew my body better than I did. Like he, fuck him, was the home I left but still kept a key to.
And of course, I kissed him back.Because of course I did.
My fingers gripped his collar, pulling him closer. But then, finally—finally—my brain screamed loud enough, and I pushed him back.
“Reagan…” I breathed, my voice unsteady. “I have to cook.”
He didn’t move right away. Just looked at me. Then he ran a hand through my slightly messy hair. “What’re you cooking?”
I swallowed. “Something I like. Bistecca alla Fiorentina.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “You know that makes me want to get on my knees.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shame I don’t have a camera to capture that once-in-a-lifetime event.”
He finally stepped back, half a step, but his grin was still devilishly wide.
“All right, Chef Milano. I’ll wait downstairs. Breath held, tongue ready to be scorched.”
“Go now, or I’m throwing a pan at your head.”
“A pan?” He leaned in again, almost kissing me but just whispered, “You know I’d prefer you threw yourself at me.”
I slammed the bedroom door in his face before I could kill him with a look.
And behind that door, I leaned back and let out a long breath.
Damn it.
Reagan Milano was still way too alive in my bloodstream.
And tonight, I had to cook dinner while pretending I hadn’t just completely lost control.
Again.
:::
The scent of rosemary and melted butter filled the kitchen before I even finished sprinkling sea salt flakes over the steak. Outside, the soft light of dusk poured through the large window, spilling across the white marble countertop like liquid gold.
I stood over the stove, flipping the bistecca alla Fiorentina in a sizzling cast-iron pan, when I heard slow footsteps approach from the living room.
“I feel like I just walked into a private Michelin-star restaurant,” Reagan’s voice came from behind me, low and teasing. “Only the view is way sexier.”
“If you’re hungry, the table’s outside,” I replied without turning. “And if you’re here for corny comments, the door’s that way.”
He let out a low laugh. “Door’s locked. And I’m more interested in the chef.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw him lean against the kitchen island. New white T-shirt, still fitted (of course), and dark pants that did nothing to make him look any less like a mistake I wouldn’t mind making again.
I ignored him, moved the meat to a cutting board, then tossed fresh arugula with olive oil and a squeeze of lemon.
“You know what really made me fall for you?” he asked suddenly.
I sighed. “The list’s too long for one night?”
“The fact that you make bloody steak feel like a hug.”
I turned to glare at him. “And you somehow make poetic sentences sound borderline indecent.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “It was a compliment. God probably made you when He was hungry and pissed.”
“I swear I will throw this wooden spoon.”
“Please do. Aim for my heart. It’s more dramatic.”
I turned away, bringing the plates of steak and salad to the dining table, which I’d set simply but beautifully: two tall candles, two place settings, and a bottle of red wine Reagan had just uncorked.
He pulled my chair out for me, and though I rolled my eyes, I sat down. Because, well… I was hungry. And worse...I couldn’t deny that all of this felt… nice.
Throughout dinner, we talked about everything and nothing. SoHo, favorite chefs, random stories that made me laugh and made him stare at me too long.
By the time I finished the last bite of my steak and he refilled my glass with the remaining wine, I knew the night wasn’t ending anytime soon.
I don’t remember exactly how we ended up on the couch. All I know is I was now leaning against Reagan’s chest, his body warm and solid behind me, and that wine... maybe stronger than I gave it credit for.
“I’m not drunk,” I murmured, watching the glow from the garden lights ripple across the lake like a moving painting.
“Of course not,” he replied. “You’re just heavy in my arms and breathing like an exhausted kitten.”
I let out a soft laugh, biting my lip. Then came the quiet.
And then, Reagan took a breath.
“Gee…”
“Hm?”
“If I could go back to those years… I’d stand between you and them. I would’ve yelled at my mother. Maybe even challenged my grandmother. I should’ve protected you.”
I went still. My eyes landed on the half-empty wine glass on the table. His voice was too quiet. Too real.
“I was a coward,” he went on. “I thought if I stayed calm, if I waited long enough, they’d come around. But all that happened was… you got broken. And I stayed silent.”
My hand moved instinctively, finding his fingers wrapped around my waist. “I don’t want to go back there, Reagan,” I said, exhaling sharply. “I can’t. I won’t survive another room full of people who look at me like I don’t belong.”
He leaned down, kissed the top of my head. “That won’t happen again. I won’t let them touch you. Not even with their words.”
I turned to look at him. Those dark gray eyes. Still stormy. But honest in a way I couldn’t ignore.
“Promise?” I whispered. Like a child asking for something too big.
He nodded, his voice barely above a breath. “Promise.”
And then, without another word, he kissed me.
Not like before. Not like a game. Not like a memory.
His hand brushed my cheek so gently I almost broke.
And I kissed him back—because I was tired. Tired of pretending I wasn’t still carrying all of this.
Tired of holding him at a distance like it made me stronger.
So tonight… I let myself fall a little deeper.
Maybe too deep.